Moments and Memories
by the bonesinger of yme-loc
Summary: A handful of short moments from Mass Effect 1, both between the missions and on mission: The Normandy encounters space monkeys, Wrex gets a wake up call, Alenko showers, and more. [M rating is for language, and only really applicable to chapter 4]
1. 1 Leaving Earth

_Right, so I'm actually doing a bit more with this story. I'm kind of surprised. It's going to be a bitch to do considering how I set this thing up, since I'll need to reorder the chapters. Lovely._

 _First things first – this story is not a standard 'Let me play Mass Effect and serialize what happened.' There will be significant deviation from not only the plot, but also the characters. The broad strokes will remain the same, but much of the minutiae will be different. There will be divergences in design as well – you'll notice this immediately in this chapter. As a practical telling of the story of Shepard, I am taking creative liberty to unfuck some of the design decisions in favor of more practical (and believable) designs. For a quick example, as you'll see in this chapter, the Normandy no longer has an elevator between the crew deck and the cargo deck, because that is ludicrous on a ship that tiny. The functional reason for the elevator (it being a loading screen due to engine and hardware limitations) does not exist in 'real life' and thus it is removed. Expect similar adaptations from video game necessary decisions. Should I ever reach the events of 2185 (Mass Effect 2), expect DRASTIC departures from the established setting design. About as drastic, as, say, the difference in aesthetic between the first and second game was._

 _As a more functionally realistic take on the story of Mass Effect,_ _the_ Normandy _will also run much more like an actual warship under the aegis of a military branch. It's a Navy vessel, and it really doesn't act like it in the game. Now, I'm not Navy myself, nor is my family (Army), so obviously I'll probably be hilariously wrong on a lot of things, so please forgive me, real life sailors, for being a civilian who can only do research on his spare time online. That being said, I've reorganized the entire layout of the_ Normandy _'s crew into what I hope is semi-accurate departments that make logical sense based on their duties. I'm basing this off of research into how the USN operates it's Littoral combat vessels, since those are of comparable crew size, though not operational purpose._

 _But seriously, the Normandy is horribly designed. Whomever secured the contract to build that ship ought be fired and never work in aerospace engineering ever ever again._

* * *

"She's tall."

It was the first thing Anderson said when she walked up the gangway, toward the Normandy's airlock. He was back with Admiral Hackett, perhaps a dozen meters from the docked frigate.

"You knew that already."

"There's a difference between reading a number and seeing a person, sir."

"That's fair, Captain," Hackett agreed. Shepard had a good half a head of height on most of the sailors embarking. She was in her dress blues, weighted down with medals, completely impeccable.

That was part of why her name had rocketed to the top of the list of candidates. There were a lot of undeniably good soldiers that may have made the cut. But Shepard made it look easy. Made it look natural, like that uniform was a second skin.

"This will be an interesting run, considering we haven't told her anything."

"Still not happy about it, David?"

"I don't try to keep my crew in the dark if I can help it, Admiral." This too, Hackett agreed with. It was only at the request of the Spectre that they'd acceded and simply told the crew the basic 'cover' story. The turian had said he wanted to see Shepard react on her feet, and while yes, that could be something worth investigating: in Hackett's opinion, she had thought very quickly indeed on Torfan, on Akuze, on her dozens of critical assignments.

But they were marching to the Council's tune on this, not the SA's. Though it grated on him, Udina was insistent they let the Council lead.

"After you hit the relay, you have my personal permission to let her known anything she wants. At that point, the ball's already in the court." The captain shrugged.

"Then I'll see you on the other side of all this, Admiral." Anderson offered a hand, and Hackett shook it, eschewing the usual salute. This time, it was two old friends, not superior and subordinate.

But then the handshake ended, and Anderson saluted. Hackett returned it with a nod, and the sailor was off, along the dock toward his command.

"Godspeed, David."

* * *

Shepard stowed her gear in the provided lockers, and glanced at the sleeping tubes. Yep, sure enough, the new standard issue pods. Which meant cramped nights for her. The ships she'd previously served on had usually had actual bunks, which, while stacked like cordwood, at least were more forgiving for someone of her height. These stupid pods the Navy was starting to play with were the bane of her existence. Half standing, half reclining, she always woke up with a crick in her neck and tension all down her back from being wedged in.

"Commander." She turned, seeing a marine at attention, rigid as a board. She casually returned the salute, and he didn't relax a bit. He looked up, expression a mix of eagerness and nervousness.

"Commander Shepard? It's an honor ma'am. Private Jenkins."

"Locker's right there, Jenkins." She motioned toward one two spaces from hers, and he nodded like his head was going to wobble off.

"Of course ma'am." Jenkins fumbled with the lock, all thumbs and agitated energy.

Fresh out of boot, she could practically smell it.

"Take it easy, Jenkins." She said, by way of parting. He stammered something, but Shepard was already gone, angling for the stairs. Armory on the bottom deck, as always, and she wanted to be in armor ASAP. Always felt more comfortable that way, with a half an inch of polysteel and plastics encasing her. The doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell whisked open on silent hydraulics, and while the effect was nice and crisp, the analytical part of her that was always keyed up and looking for escape routes noted that since they were electrical, not mechanical, all it took was a power failure (or a lockdown) and the doors would be jammed shut. Other ships she'd served on had the old-fashioned wheel-lock bulkhead doors, and those, while sometimes needing a bit of elbow grease to get into motion could be trusted to always be accessible.

She was disliking this ship already. It wasn't just the lines of it, which would probably made for a real nice plastic model to sell to kids in gift shops in a decade or two once it was declassified, it was the intention of the ship.

It was trying to be the future, and it was trying too hard.

Really, when the SA already had a dozen planets under their belts, the wonder of engineering that was Arcturus Station and a fleet that was quickly coming to parity with the galactic heavyweights, she was of the opinion that everything was quite modern and futuristic enough, thank you. That was classic government though – dump money into developing solutions to problems that didn't exist. Like the sleeper pods that probably came with a lot of fluffy adjectives attached to them like 'ergonomic' and 'compact' and 'scientifically proven' but actually were, in practice, a source of loathing from servicemen and women subjected to their cramped, awkward confines. A standard double or triple bunk, be it bare metal bolted to the bulkhead or inset in little cubbies like on the newer vessels was maybe a little old-fashioned, but it was _comfortable_ and more importantly – it gave sailors a place that was their own. Not these encapsulated torture devices.

And now the doors. Someone in the drawing room had gotten a hair up their ass to be more like turn of the century sci-fi and decided that a spaceship wasn't a spaceship without doors that went _whoosh_. Really, she wondered, it was only a question of how many sailors would die due to some flashy new age door trapping them in a venting compartment because the power lines got cut, or some similar catastrophe, before the Navy decided to go back to the tried-and-true.

If this ship was an experiment, the experiment must've been 'how much money can we waste on a hazardous death trap'.

Like the motor pool/armory. She glanced around as she tapped in her personal code to her armor locker, taking in the shockingly open design of it all. There was the ubiquitous Mako, of course, but what as the most shocking was how the armory was just…sitting in the same bay as the motor pool. It wasn't in its own compartment, all the armor lockers were lined up neat and tidy along the side wall of the cavernous bay.

So what exactly were people supposed to do if this room lost pressure, _and the only hardsuits on the ship were in here?_

She tugged out the armor plates, piling them up on the corrugated decking, and wondered if this assignment was actually an extremely expensive and convoluted plot by the Navy to finally do her in.

Once she wiggled her fingers into the gauntlets and her omnitool confirmed all seals active and in the green, she clamped the helmet onto her hip and took a last look around.

Deathtrap, all of it.


	2. 2 I move faster on my own

'I move faster on my own.' The turian moved as if he wasn't expecting any dissent, and the sharp sound of scoffing pinned his taloned feet to the deck.

'That's a shit-stupid plan.' Jenkins' head swung around and through the clear faceplate, his slack jaw was visible. Alenko visibly started, and the spectre slowly turned on his heel with all the slow menace of a tank turret.

'Excuse me.'

'We're hip deep in unknown territory, facing unknown enemies that blew through Alliance defenses…and you want to _split up_.' Everyone present could hear the low growl from the turian, but if Shepard cared, she didn't show it. Anderson opened his mouth as if to interject, then stopped, waiting to see how it would play out.

'I have extensive experience on my own, Commander. And I am not used to repeating myself.'

'I don't care if you can fart ion exhaust and fly without wings. Splitting up the only four people in theatre is a recipe for disaster. You wanted to evaluate me as a leader? Well, as a leader, I'd never stand for that kind of tactical mistake.'

'Then I'm overriding your objections. As there is Prothean tech on the ground, Council authority supersedes Alliance.'

'And as it's an Alliance world with Alliance citizens _dying_ I'll thank you to shove that authority up your angular ass. Feel free to jump off here, Nihlus. I'll just be following you.' Nihlus, exasperation writ large on his face, evident even across species divide, turned to Anderson.

Who, surprisingly, shrugged.

'You wanted to see how she would act as a Spectre. The Commander may not speak for me in specific, ah, phrasing, but I stand behind her choices.'

Nihlus clenched a fist, relaxed it, and before he could speak, Jeff's voice cut in.

'Uh, Commander? How long do you want me to idle here? Whatever's out there is going to pick up on us sooner rather than later…'

It was the necessity of speed in the operation that tipped Nihlus' hand. He could no more afford to argue about it than Shepard, so he relented, and nodded, and locked eyes with Anderson with a look that screamed 'this is so far beyond not over'. And the ground team, three humans and a turian, trotted to the edge of the hanger, to the bottom of the opened ramp, and jumped down into the whipping winds of Eden Prime under a burning sky.


	3. She punches him in the face

She punches Wrex in the face.

Krogan are not the top of the galactic food chain. They aren't even close. The bumbling volus, coughing and wheezing; the ephemeral hanar - even the recently uplifted drell – they all weigh in above krogan in terms of clout. Laugh at a volus all you want, but he's probably handling your money at the end of the day. And say what you want about hanar, but for all their insularity they've made an impact on the galaxy with their strange culture.

But the krogan? Quarians are suit rats, and probably will steal your wallet. But everyone knows they're the opposite of dumb, and there's a kind of grudging respect underneath the distaste the galaxy held for them because it took a certain amount of skill to keep a fleet of ships running for three hundred years.

But the krogan? Not a brain cell among them. All muscles and no sense. Nothing but instincts and crude behavior.

Only thing the galactic community would admit is that when it came to intimidation or combat, there was no equal.

So Shepard punches Wrex in the face.

The krogan takes a half a step back, rocked by the blow.

His eyes pop open wider than the watching salarians'.

There's a split second where he's between states. He was angry – incensed even - filled with righteous anger, and now he's in a state of blank surprise. That this human _female_ would even dare. In another few moments the anger will come back, and this time as rage.

'Is this how you want to handle this?' she shouts, in his face. 'I thought you were more!'

The surprise continues. Because he's chewing on those words. Shouted at him from inches away, from a female of another species a fraction of his age.

And, dammit, it makes him stop.

Because, when he weighs it, more of the surprise than the action itself is the realization that he actually _does_ care what this woman thinks of him. What this pup of a human thinks.

Because she's the only creature that has ever listened to Wrex as a person, not a tool.

Because she took the time to learn his language, to understand _why_.

Because, maybe, he respects her.

Because she's right. He is more. He's spent months showing her that. Telling her. Proving it. And now here he is, losing his head. Just like everyone would expect a krogan to. Act first and think later, if ever at all.

He growls, and meets her eyes. They're blazing under her weird fringe of black hair, brows taut and low, forehead furrowed, lips drawn into a thin line.

He knows human expressions, they're so like asari. She's beyond pissed, but is she raging? Is she flailing and filling the wind with shouts? Is she threatening mortal violence to every living thing nearby, sapient or otherwise? No.

So he won't.

'Shepard,' he grumbles, voice harsh enough to vibrate the river stones. 'This is about my people.'

'It is,' she agrees, nodding. 'It's about them enslaved to Saren.'

'Krogan aren't-' he goes to say 'slaves', by rote. She cuts him off. If she was anyone else, he might have literally bitten her head off.

'Bull. Wrex, look at these krogan we've fought. They're empty. They're as much husks as those freaks the geth make out of people.'

'But if we can change it…alter it…'

'It's not a cure, Wrex. It's just clones. Empty, blank slates. There's nothing there. This isn't curing the genophage. It's not even close.'

'But the _possibility_ -'

'Wrex. _Wrex_.' She doesn't need to argue it. Wrex realizes this, as he's making excuses. He knows, deep down, the truth. These aren't krogan. This isn't a cure, or hope.

It's just so hard to not wish it could be, though.

She can tell by his change in demeanor his mind has been made up. She steps back. Wrex nods, long and slow, crest cutting the humid air.

'I'm going to rip his arms off.' It's a matter of fact statement, and he doesn't need to specify who.

'Wrex, if we get close enough?' Shepard laughs, sharp and short. 'I'll hold him down myself.'

Yeah. Maybe he respects her.


	4. Washing off the Thorian

Alenko was lost in his own little world, mind still chewing over the events of the day and everything that had happened. One hand held his shower kit, the other a change of clothes. The door to the washrooms hissed open and closed as he whisked through, the air rolling out to envelope him humid and warm, smell of neutral military soaps filling his nose. Most of the ground team had already been through the showers while he, Vakarian, and the Commander finished up with the Mako.

He stripped down, shelving his sweaty bodysuit on the rack, and piling his clean clothes on a shelf. Mind still churning, headache slowly building from his biotics and that freakish plant monster, he only vaguely noticed the ambient noises around him as he cranked on a shower, keying in his code for his daily allowance of warm water.

He was lathering his hair when he froze.

Someone was humming and a shower was running. Belatedly, he ran back through the past few minutes and realized he'd been hearing it the whole time.

And it was a definitely feminine humming.

And then it stopped, the owner no doubt noticing his sudden silence.

'Evening Lieutenant. Lot on your mind?' There was a note of mirth in her question.

The Commander.

He resumed washing his hair, as if nothing happened. Ignoring the sudden dryness in his mouth, the tension in his muscles.

'Lot to process from today, ma'am.'

'You're telling me. Nothing like plant monsters to shake up a day.' He tried to ignore his sudden hyperfocus on the subtle sounds of skin-on-skin coming from the shower stall behind him. The stalls were your standard cheap Navy issue – barely mid-chest height, just enough for a modicum of privacy.

'And the naked asari. Distracting to say the least. Never seen a naked asari before, and kind of disappointed. No tentacles, you know?' He laughed, and half turned, incredulous at the words apparently coming from The Commander.

Bad choice. She was facing away from him, rinsing out her own hair, bare back glistening wet, muscles tensing and sliding under pale skin-

He jerked back around, facing the wall again. Let out a silent, shuddering breath, trying to bite down his embarrassment. Ten years in the military, and never a single issue with the coed washrooms.

Until now.

'God, I'm tired. I've got muscles I didn't even know I had aching.'

'Right? Those creepers put us through the ringer.' He looked down at the developing green and yellow bruise along his ribs and considered he might have understated it a bit.

'Vakarian of course made off scot-free. Maybe we should take up sniping.'

'You? C'mon ma'am, you can't resist getting your hands dirty.' Even as the words left his mouth, he winced. The mental image of her naked back, flexing, and the unintentional innuendo. Swallowing, he glanced down. Erection like a fucking flagpole.

Great.

From behind him, he heard loud cracking and popping. Followed by a long, low groan that altogether did _not_ help his situation.

'Ow. Chakwas keeps telling me not to do that, y'know.' She said, tone matter of fact. 'How's your head?'

'Fine, ma'am. Little sore, but the thorian wasn't too bad.'

'You looked rough down there. Just making sure.'

'It's no problem.' He heard water click off, followed by sounds of wet skin on skin, which he studiously ignored. Then the flumph of a towel. Motion at the edge of his vision caught his eye, and he glanced automatically, head turning a little.

Snapped his eyes at the tile again. Sounds of clothes being pulled on, hiss of the towel chute as it opened to accept the soiled towel and washcloths.

''Night, Lieutenant.'

'Goodnight ma'am,' he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as strangled as he imagined it.

The door to the washroom hissed open, shut again, and he was alone.

He let out a long, shaking breath, and softly bounced his head off the tile wall.

Idiot.

The shower beeped, telling him he had a minute and a half left.

Quite a day.


	5. Tiny purple monkeys

He's watching Commander Shepard, Council Spectre, chase around tiny purple monkeys. Garrus is howling with laughter, nearly doubled over, barely able to move as he's chasing monkeys of his own. Liara, still looking scandalized is gently picking them up, examining them, and then putting them back down _with a pat on the head_. He is, at least, is ostensibly trying to hack the probe. If he could tear his eyes from his commanding officer who has kept up an unceasing stream of remarkably inventive and non-repeating profanities.

The best part is how docile they are. They plop in the Commander's hands like little puppies, wide eyes and little hands feeling the cold armored fingers. They gamboled about their feet, completely heedless that, minutes before, they all nearly died.

'One of the native creatures must have stolen the key.' Shepard's helmet scanned the strange hives of simians, and her Avenger came up.

'Well, that's easy enough to handle.'

Only Liara's shocked gasp paused the Commander's hand, and the asari had actually scolded the woman for even thinking of massacring the creatures.

So now they are searching by hand.

Vakarian finally gives up and flops on his ass, roaring with laughter as the latest suspect in Shepard's hands breaks free and scrambles up her arm, shoulder, to perch on her helmet, preening like a king.

Gauntleted hands grab for it, but its game on. The tiny monkey dodges and weaves and scuttles around her neck and shoulders, making tinny little squeaking noises as it clearly enjoys the hell out of itself.

It might not know what these giant, hard shelled, odd smelling creatures might be, but playtime is playtime and that, at least, seems to be a universal language.

Even Liara is smiling, giggling a little, like the hundred year young girl she is, watching the spectacle.

And when Shepard finally snatches the little animal by the scruff of its neck and deposits it on the ground, giving it a less than gentle tap with her foot, Liara announced she found the key, as Garrus hauled himself to his feet, gasping for air.

Liara slots it in, the probe humming to life and unlocking it's databanks for their omnitools. Close to him, she leans closer.

'Kaidan...I found it five minutes ago,' she whispers, conspiratorial, broad grin curving her lips.

And he doesn't blink, doesn't acknowledge it or spoil her secret, because through her helmet, Shepard's eyes are shining with amusement, even as she grumbles. Garrus is sighing, still chuckling now and then, and Liara looks better than she has in weeks.

Alenko, hidden behind his helmet, smiles to himself.

They'd found a little more than survey data on this planet.


	6. You humans are all racist

She doesn't look up as Ashley enters, snapping to a smooth salute. She tosses back a halfhearted one, not looking up from the report she's writing.

'Have a seat, Chief.' There's tension in the Gunnery Chief's body language, as she lowers herself into one of the two chairs facing Shepard's desk.

'Thank you ma'am.'

'Something on your mind.' Not a question.

'Yes ma'am.' Shepard's still typing, fingers blurred over the holographic keys. If she hadn't had a month to acclimatize to the Commander, Williams would've waited, assuming Shepard would finish, then give her attention. But that was the difference between Shepard and some of the former COs Williams had served under. Shepard was typing up a full report, and she was also paying full attention. So she didn't wait, and plunged ahead.

'It's, ah, about some of the ground team.'

'The non-human members.' Again, not a question. William's demeanor around the aliens was clear enough, even if it still fell well within professional bounds. She never said anything outright, but there was an evident tension in how she carried herself, and how she spoke.

'Yes ma'am. I feel like I'd be remiss if I didn't say something. I understand your reasons for having them on board, but…' Williams trailed off, trying to find the words. Shepard said nothing, and for a brief moment, the only sounds in the cabin were the soft electronic tones of the holographic keys.

'I'm just concerned with how much access they have.'

Shepard didn't look up, still typing a mile a minute. 'You're concerned that Vakarian has direct access to the Mako. That Engineer Zorah has full clearance in Engineering.'

'Well, yes. The _Normandy_ is all prototype technology, a big investment of the Alliance. I'm only concerned with how much the ali- uhm, non-humans, are able to get to.'

'I see. Do you have anything specific to report? Any direct concerns to voice?'

'Well, no, ma'am.'

'Until you do, Williams, I don't want to hear about this.'

'But Commander-'

'Do you trust Chief Adams? Chief Dubyansky?' The unexpected line of questioning threw Williams for a second, and she frowned.

'Well, yes.'

'You trust their expertise?'

'They wouldn't be here if Alliance command didn't think they cut it.'

'Just so, Chief. So – answer me this. You trust Chief Adams, you trust our operations Chief, and yet you're taking it on yourself to object to how they handle their responsibilities?'

'What? No ma'am, -' Shepard cuts her off, still typing, still looking only at the screen.

'That's exactly what you're doing. You are the Gunnery Chief of this ship, Williams. Vakarian and Engineer Zorah's duties onboard this ship has nothing to do with what you should be focused on. They both report to their own superiors, and ultimately to me. If there was any concern for security, are you saying that you don't trust Chief Adams or Chief Dubyansky to report that to me?'

'Of course not.'

'Then why are you here, Gunnery Chief? Why is it you sitting in my cabin, telling me that you have unfounded concerns about two of _my_ staff appointments?'

'Because-'

'Because they're aliens, Chief. Because you don't trust them because they're aliens. Quarians are suit rats and thieves and turians are racists and hate humans. Isn't that quite right?'

'Ma'am, I-'

'I know your history, Williams. I make it a point to know as much as I can about every soldier under my command. Tell me, on Eden Prime, when your unit was wiped out by the Geth, did you consider surrendering to save your own life?'

Williams froze, face flushed, heart hammering. Anger overrode training, and she opened her mouth to spit back, but the Commander didn't stop.

'Of course you didn't. You're not your grandfather, are you? And it would be both unprofessional and immoral for me to assume that of you.' Finally, Shepard did look up, locking eyes with Williams. To Ashley's surprise, the only real emotion she saw in them was exasperation.

'Williams, I'm going to let this pass. Once. But I don't want to hear about your dislike of aliens again, unless you have a very good reason and solid evidence against whoever you're talking about. This is also the last time you're going to question my orders, is that also quite clear? I run this ship with a great deal of leeway, but I will not have my decisions second guessed.'

Williams' mouth opened and closed a few times, fingers flexing on the armrests of the chair. Finally, she swallowed, and stood, saluting.

'Yes ma'am.'

'You're dismissed, Gunnery Chief. I assume there is plenty of work to be done, as it's still, ah, thirteen hundred.'


	7. Technological Advancement

'What,' She banged the pistol against the metal floor once, twice, hard, and checked again the ammunition indicator. Still blinking 'overheat'.

'In god's name,' she threw the pistol aside, grabbing up one from the wreckage of a mech. A check of this one, and it read five shots, halfway depleted. But it wasn't recharging.

'Is _wrong_ ,' she grabbed the other pistol from the second mech, this one too half-full.

'With these,' she popped the heatsink, watching a cloud of steam hiss out, staring stupefied at the pistol actually ejecting its _entire heatsink_ to clatter to the ground, readout dropping to 0.

' _Guns!'_

Lawson can only watch, utterly dumbfounded, as Shepard throws aside a perfectly good Predator, and picks up another from a nearby mech. She fires off four shots in quick succession, looks at the pistol, swears, slams it against the ground, looks at it again, swears even more colorfully, and throws the pistol away. And picks up another.

'Shepard! What are you _doing!_ '


End file.
